


Date Night

by samyazaz



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Relationship, First Dates, Kissing, M/M, Movie Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 01:41:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3339179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samyazaz/pseuds/samyazaz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire leans against the edge of the door and looks out at him in bemusement. "You're the smartest man I know, Enjolras. I <i>know</i> your memory isn't this bad."</p><p>Enjolras's smile fades away to a bewildered frown. "What?"</p><p>"They're out again. They're <i>always</i> out on Thursdays. It's date night. I know you know this, I've only told you half a dozen times. And yet you keep showing up."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Date Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [slightlytookish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slightlytookish/gifts).



> Written for slightlytookish for the Les Mis Valentine's Day Exchange. Thank you so much for the wonderful prompt! I hope you enjoy the fic, I really enjoyed writing it for you.

Grantaire has had the apartment to himself for approximately five minutes when there's a knock at the door, and he has to laugh. In all the time he's known them, he doesn't think Joly or Bossuet have ever managed to leave without forgetting something, and it's worse when they're together, even with Musichetta to temper their forgetfulness. 

"All right, what'd you forget?" he asks, laughing as he pulls the door open. 

Enjolras blinks at him, his hand raised to knock again. A frown creases his brow. "Nothing?" he says, twisting to frown at his backpack like it's personally betrayed him. "I don't think?" 

Grantaire just stares at him for half a second too long. "Sorry," he blurts when he realizes and automatically steps back, then immediately and silently curses himself because Enjolras takes his cue and steps through, and Enjolras is _inside his apartment_ and what the hell is he supposed to do now? "I thought you were the others." 

"Oh," Enjolras says, frowning again, just a little. "Are they not in?" He turns in a circle to look around the living room like he expects them to jump out from behind the couch or something. 

Enjolras's presence here makes about a million times more sense if he came looking for Joly or Bossuet or Musichetta. "It's date night. You just missed them." 

Enjolras's expression doesn't clear with understanding the way Grantaire might have expected. Instead, his frown deepens. "Oh," he says, and there's a wealth of disgruntled irritation behind that one syllable. He shrugs his backpack off and drops onto the couch with a sharp sigh. "Combeferre and Courfeyrac have gone out, too. The house was a little too quiet, and I've been meaning to get Bossuet's input on these flyers anyway, so I thought--" He breaks off, glances at Grantaire, and then slides his gaze away. 

Grantaire makes a face and shuts the door, since Enjolras seems inclined to stay. "You thought you'd come by and get some help," he finishes for Enjolras, moving into the kitchen to pour himself some coffee. If Enjolras is going to stay, then Grantaire is going to need some fortification. "And instead you found me. Sorry to disappoint." 

"That's not--" Enjolras cuts himself off again, sucking in a sharp breath of air. "We were discussing it the other day, Bossuet and I, that's all. If you're interested in helping..." 

His words are doubtful and his expression skeptical, but Grantaire believes that he really would suffer through Grantaire's help if Grantaire gave the slightest indication he were interested in giving it, so he lets Enjolras off the hook with a shake of his head. "Text isn't really my thing. Bossuet's a much better choice than I am. They're--" He hesitates, already knowing what he's going to say and unable to believe it's about to come out of his mouth. "They'll be back in a few hours, if you want to wait?" 

Enjolras seems torn, but after a moment he gives a heavy sigh and sinks deeper into Grantaire's couch. "I may as well. I won't get anything done if I go back home. I can't think with all that quiet." 

"Well, I've got some work of my own I need to do, so I'm not likely to be a scintillating conversationalist." Not that Enjolras ever finds conversation with Grantaire anything but infuriating, so that's probably for the good. "But I can turn on some music?" 

Enjolras nods eagerly, and Grantaire refrains from commenting that Enjolras could just turn music on at home and not have to suffer the company. He turns on the stereo, hands the remote to Enjolras so he can pick a station he won't spend the entire evening making tortured faces over, and then finally manages to get a mug down out of the cupboard for coffee. 

Enjolras is quiet while Grantaire pours himself a mug and adds cream and sugar until it tastes right, just the quiet click of his laptop's keys as he gets to work. Grantaire carries the coffee back to his room, where he keeps all his canvases and paints stored away so they don't take over the living room like a creeping fungus the way they have his bedroom. He uses date night as an opportunity to bring them out and take advantage of the better light in the living room, and so long as there isn't paint on the carpet or an easel set up in front of the TV when the others get home, no one minds the occasional occupation. 

He's supposed to be working on a landscape but it's boring him to tears, and the spot in the living room that gets the best light is also one that puts Enjolras directly in his line of sight, so he gives in to the inevitable without a fight and drags an easel and a clean canvas and all his paints out to set up with his back to the window, Enjolras hunched before him at the other end of the room, his face illuminated by the glow of his laptop screen. Grantaire eyes him over the canvas's edge and starts mixing paints to try and capture the perfect golden hue of Enjolras's hair in the evening light. 

An hour later, he's got the rough shapes blocked in and the base colors laid down, and his coffee has gone cold and forgotten beside him. There aren't really any good stopping points when he's working on something like this, but that just means that this is as good a place for a break as any, and his stomach is demanding one. He stretches out his back and chugs down the last of his lukewarm coffee and goes into the kitchen to dig up something to quiet it. 

There's leftover enchiladas in the fridge. He dishes out a few onto a plate and sticks them in the microwave, then pours more coffee while he waits. 

He's halfway back through the living room, cutting himself a bite with his fork as he walks, when Enjolras says, "That smells good," without glancing up from his computer screen. 

Grantaire freezes and stares at Enjolras, stricken by the sudden realization that he is being a _really really terrible_ host. "Did-- Um. Did you want some? I mean, they're kind of spicy, Joly likes it burn-the-roof-of-your-mouth-off hot, but if you don't mind the heat-- Or we have other things, I'm sure. I think there's soup in the pantry?" 

Enjolras lifts his head, then, and stares at Grantaire as though he's not making any sense at all, which Grantaire supposes is fair. "There wasn't a double meaning in that. I said it smells good because it does. I wasn't fishing for an offer." 

"Did you eat dinner?" 

Enjolras frowns and doesn't answer, which seems like a pretty definite _no_. Grantaire sighs heavily. "Do you like spicy food?" 

Enjolras's mouth pinches tight. "You don't have to feed me." 

" _Enjolras._ " 

"For heaven's sake. Fine, spicy is fine." 

Grantaire eyes him doubtfully, suspecting he's just saying that to keep Grantaire from going to the extreme effort of pouring a can of soup into a pot for him. Joly's spicy food should not be inflicted upon the unwary, or the unprepared. But Enjolras just goes back to his laptop with a determined air, so Grantaire shrugs and returns to the kitchen to dish up a second plate of enchiladas. 

While they're heating in the microwave, he leans against the counter and takes advantage of the cover to pull out his phone and sends a text to Bossuet: _SAVE ME_

Bossuet, bless his heart, replies almost immediately, despite the fact that Grantaire knows he's interrupting their date. _Is there an axe murderer in the house? Or is it a zombie plague? Has the world fallen into a dystopian hellscape between our soup and salad courses? I need to know what sort of a rescue I should be planning here._

_ENJOLRAS IS HERE. HE'S EATING JOLY'S ENCHILADAS_ , Grantaire sends back, and then drums his fingers against the edge of the counter while he waits for a response. 

_(Musichetta says she'll bring the shotgun. Shotguns are good for all rescue scenarios)_ , Bossuet sends back, and then, _Are you trying to kill the man?!_

Grantaire makes a face at his phone. _I WARNED HIM. I OFFERED HIM SOUP. HE INSISTED._

_Entree's here, have to go before our waiter decides we're uncultured swine,_ Bossuet sends back. _Try not to kill him before we get home._

_I DON'T HAVE TO KILL HIM, JOLY'S ENCHILADAS ARE GOING TO DO THAT FOR ME,_ Grantaire says, but this time, gets no reply. And the enchiladas are done, the microwave beeping insistently at him, so he takes a breath and shoves his phone back into his pocket and carries the plate out to set on the coffee table before Enjolras. "Don't say I didn't warn you," he says, and then goes back into the kitchen to pour a very large glass of milk and brings it out for Enjolras, just in case. 

Grantaire is not so rash as to sit at his easel with food, even when he's not painting for an assignment. That leaves little alternative but to sit on the couch with Enjolras, though. He settles himself down gingerly, plate balanced on his knees because Enjolras has his plate and glass on the coffee table. 

They've squeezed four onto that couch any number of times, Grantaire at one end and Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta entangled across the rest, and it's never seemed overcrowded before, even with elbows and knees digging into his sides. But now, with the two of them and half the couch empty between them, Grantaire feels as though he's suffocating. 

They eat in silence. Grantaire keeps his gaze fixed on his plate, on his knees. Until he's halfway through his enchiladas, when he can't help but glance sidelong to see how Enjolras is faring. 

There is sweat on Enjolras's brow and his glass has been nearly emptied. But otherwise he presents an appearance that seems unaffected. Grantaire marvels, and cannot manage to bring himself to look away again. 

"Seconds?" he asks when Enjolras has emptied his plate, because if he weren't at least a little bit of a dick Enjolras might think he'd been abducted by pod people. 

Enjolras clears his throat and pointedly sets his fork down on his plate. "No, thank you." 

"More milk?" 

Enjolras lets out a sharp breath. "Please." 

Grantaire grins and rises. Since he's up anyway, he takes Enjolras's plate and his own into the kitchen and leaves them soaking in the sink. "Next time, just let me make you soup," he says as he returns with the milk and hands it to Enjolras, and watches in bemusement as Enjolras downs half of it in one go. 

Enjolras gives him a tart look that's rather ruined by the way he clutches at the glass of milk as though it's a life preserver. "I told you, it was fine." 

Grantaire's grin spreads. "And you were clearly lying. You ought to watch out for that pride, Enjolras, it's going to get you in trouble one of these days." 

Enjolras just huffs and pulls his laptop onto his lap again. Grantaire takes the excuse to retreat back to his easel and spends the rest of the evening trying to mix the perfect cayenne-red to add interest and contrast to the cooler colors he's already laid in on the painting. 

*

Two weeks later, Grantaire answers a knock at the door to find Enjolras standing on the other side again. This time he's got an armful of paper and envelopes and sundry other supplies, and he brushes in as soon as Grantaire's got the door open, making straight for the couch. "They're out at the movies," he says over his shoulder as he dumps everything in a sprawl across the coffee table. "And if I give myself one more paper cut while stuffing envelopes I think I may actually scream, so I thought I'd come over, get some help. Misery loves company and all that, right?" 

Grantaire closes the door belatedly behind him, and comes to stand over the coffee table, staring down at the chaos that has suddenly overtaken it. "That's what I've heard," he says. "But your timing is terrible. You've just missed the others, they've gone off ice skating. I'm expecting the call that Bossuet broke his ankle and is off to visit his good friends at the ER any minute now." 

Enjolras blinks at him for a moment. "That's all right," he says at last, pointedly. "You're here." And he shoves a stack of papers and a box of envelopes into Grantaire's hands. 

"...Ah." Grantaire grimaces and sets everything back down on the table. "That's not really my wheelhouse, you know. I'm more the type to joke and pun and provide comedic entertainment than I am to spend a perfectly good evening stuffing envelopes. I'll leave it to your brilliant and capable hands." 

Enjolras's gaze tracks him as he crosses the room to settle in front of his easel. "You're not even going to try?" His voice is sharp and flinty. 

"It's stuffing envelopes, Enjolras," Grantaire says slowly. "It's not exactly a talented skill. This isn't some sort of I-don't-believe-in-my-own-skills-or-abilities-so-I'm-not-even-going-to-try thing. This is I've-got-an-assignment-due-in-two-days-and-I'd-rather-spend-my-time-on-something-I-know-will-make-a-difference. So." He tips his head toward where he's already got his easel set up in front of the living room window. "I'll just be over there, doing that. Would you like the radio on again?" 

Enjolras's mouth is flat and tight. He says, "No," and it's one quick syllable, but it carries a wealth of disapproval along with it. 

Grantaire shrugs with one shoulder and settles down in front of his easel. "Suit yourself." 

They work in silence for a time. Grantaire works quietly, but Enjolras's work is punctuated by sharp sighs, by the angry snap of paper through the air every time he grabs the next sheet off the pile, by the sharp rustle of each envelope, stuffed and sealed and addressed, as he throws it down on top of the growing pile. 

Eventually, Grantaire sets his brush down and just sits there, watching Enjolras work furiously over the top of his easel. He imagines painting it, Enjolras a bright spot of seething, golden fury in the center, a whirlwind of papers and envelopes swirling around him as though caught in the storm of his rage. It would make a nice composition and a stylistic stretch, but he really does have an assignment due so he forces himself to keep to his boring landscape. 

When he rises to stretch out his legs and his spine and wanders into the kitchen to find something to eat, he at least remembers to play host this time. He heats soup in a pot on the stove, and makes coffee while he waits for it to warm. 

When both are done, he carries a bowl of soup and a cup of coffee out to Enjolras, and sets them both down on a corner of the coffee table, the one bit of surface that hasn't been entirely taken over by papers. "You've been at that for hours," he says quietly. "Take a break. Eat." 

Enjolras exhales a sharp breath, throws his envelope down on the pile, and snatches up the next sheet of paper. "I'm not hungry, thank you." His words are painfully polite, but the tone he speaks them in is a clear _fuck you_. 

Grantaire grunts. "If you're going to insist on slicing up your fingers you should at least give your body the fuel it needs to repair itself. The world is not going to fall to pieces just because you took five minutes away from your cause to remember that you're an actual human being, Enjolras." 

"I have a great amount of work to do." Enjolras's voice still snaps with temper, and he throws each sealed envelope down on the pile as though it's personally offended him. "And no help at it, besides, so you'll forgive me if I choose to keep working." 

Grantaire leans back. "Oh," he says on a sigh. "That's what this is about. You're in a snit because I'm not helping? It's stuffing envelopes, Enjolras, you can't honestly have come here expecting me to be enthusiastic about that. You'd be better off hiring some kid off the street to do it for you for pennies, and leaving me to do my actual work. You don't need me for that, anyone could do it." 

Enjolras is silent for a moment. Grantaire waits, because the angry set of his mouth and the way he continues to throw envelopes down onto the pile makes it pretty obvious that he's got more on his mind. So he waits, and after a moment Enjolras exhales a sharp breath and turns to him. "You come to all our meetings. You come and you sit there and you listen to me talk. You listen to all of us, and I can't fathom why you would do any of that if you don't think that we're going to make any difference." 

" _Oh._ " Grantaire scrubs his hands over his face and sighs. "Enjolras, look. Whether I sit here for an evening stuffing envelopes with you or not, it's not going matter. It's not going to change anything." 

"It will! Or it could. The more people we're able to get our ideas in front of--" 

"No." Grantaire picks a leaflet up from the pile of them and gestures with it. "You're wrong. I do think you can make a difference, actually. I think if anyone in this world can, it's you. But not like this. This, it's-- it's junk mail. Your words are powerful, but no one's going to give them a chance like this, they're just going to throw it out with their recycling. If _you_ think this is a good use of your time, then I wish you well with it. But it's not a good use of mine, and I've got other things that need my attention more. Like actually graduating." He sighs and lays the leaflet back on its stack, carefully aligning it with the rest so that it's in a neat, tidy stack. "So no, I'm not going to help you stuff envelopes. But just because I don't care to do busywork doesn't mean I don't believe in you." 

Enjolras just keeps stuffing envelopes, his mouth set and his movements short and sharp. Grantaire gives him a moment, then sighs and gets to his feet. He picks up the soup and coffee from its place on the edge of the coffee table so it won't end up spilled across the carpet in a moment of carelessness, and carries them over to the kitchen table. "It's here if you want it," he says to Enjolras's back. "If you get hungry." 

Grantaire's not usually the sort to eat at the kitchen table, especially not alone. None of them are particularly precious about the furniture, and unless they're eating something that just doesn't work balanced on one's knees, they mostly eat together squeezed onto the couch while watching a tv show or documentary. Sitting at the table with Joly and Bossuet and Musichetta just reminds Grantaire of his parents' godawful boring formal dinners, and eating there alone just makes Grantaire feel ridiculous. But at least it puts some distance between him and Enjolras, and tonight, he'd rather have that than his pride. 

He's just finished his bowl of soup and returned from the kitchen with seconds, and two thick slices of Italian bread to sop it up with, when Enjolras comes and brushes past him as he reaches to take the cold soup and coffee. Grantaire tears the middle out of his pieces of bread and watches Enjolras's back as he puts them both in the microwave. 

He doesn't look at Grantaire as he waits, though that doesn't leave him with much other than his shoes to stare at while the microwave hums behind him. He crosses his arms and leans back against the counter while he waits, and by the time the microwave beeps Grantaire's got his bread torn up into half a dozen pieces and floating like islands on the surface of the soup, and he doesn't have much to do while he waits for them to soak up the broth. 

When the microwave goes off, Enjolras takes the soup out, stirs it, tastes it, and carries it over to the table. He sits down with it opposite Grantaire. "All right," he says. "You think I can change things, but you don't think this'll do it. Tell me how, then." 

Grantaire lifts his gaze from the contemplation of his soup and stares across the table at Enjolras. He doesn't _look_ like he's completely lost his mind... 

Enjolras's mouth pulls sideways with an impatient grimace. "You're not working on your assignment now, you can't claim I'm keeping you from it. So talk to me. You never speak up during our meetings, but if you have an idea I'm as interested in hearing it now as I ever am." 

Grantaire thinks fondly of his phone, which he stupidly left over by his easel, because he apparently has no sense of self-preservation to speak of. Bossuet and Musichetta and Joly are just a text message away, but he can't turn to them for salvation because he's stuck here, with Enjolras trying to have a _conversation_ with him, and it's all the way across the room. It might as well be on the moon, for all the good it does him. 

Enjolras continues to watch him expectantly, and Grantaire knows him well enough to know that if Grantaire digs his heels in, it's just going to make Enjolras more obstinate, not less. So he sighs and fishes a sodden lump of bread out of his soup and eats it to buy time. "You're very charismatic, if you hadn't noticed," he says at last. "It's a strength, but flyers? Pieces of paper in the mail? It completely ignores that strength. You want to change things, you want to change _people_ , your best bet is to do it by talking to them. Let them hear you, and anyone will be convinced." 

Enjolras's brows crease into a thoughtful expression. "I'm only one man, though. There's a limit to how far my voice can go. That's the point of the flyers, to reach farther than we have been, to spread awareness." 

Grantaire's already shaking his head. "Not gonna work. Maybe you'll get a few people, sure, if you spam it out far enough and wide enough you're bound to get _something_ back. But it's not going to be enough to justify the time and effort you spend on it." 

"What do you suggest, then?" 

"Go viral," Grantaire says with a shrug. "Get people talking. You do that right and you won't have to worry about spreading your message, because they'll be doing that work for you. When it comes to return on investment, word of mouth'll win every time." 

"Huh," Enjolras says, and just blinks at him. 

Grantaire ducks his head. He really, really wishes he had his phone, and a convenient excuse not to look at Enjolras looking at him like that. He'd almost prefer Enjolras's usual impatience or exasperation or strained tolerance to _this_. At least then he'd know what to make of it. 

"Eat your soup," he says, gruff, and busies himself taking his own advice. "Before it goes cold again." 

Enjolras does as he's told, which is a minor miracle in itself. But he watches Grantaire more than usual through the rest of the evening, and the way he looks at him never quite goes back to normal. 

*

Grantaire staggers home after a long day of classes and an even longer evening at work, and his stomach immediately clenches at the smell of delicious cooking things that fills the hallway outside the stairwell. Probably Mrs. Houcheloup experimenting with recipes again. This one smells like a winner, and he considers the odds that if he knocks on her door and tells her so that she'll send him home with a tupperware of it for dinner. He'll just drop his bag off inside and kick his shoes off, he thinks. Then he'll go over and take shameless advantage of her kindness. 

He lets himself into the apartment and stops half a step through the door, because the lights are on and because the smell of food is even stronger in here than it was in the hall and because _Enjolras is in his kitchen._

Enjolras is in his kitchen, wearing an apron and stirring a pot on the stove, and Grantaire staggers to the kitchen table and drops down onto a chair before his knees give out beneath him. 

The sound of the chair scraping back make Enjolras turn. "Oh good, you're just in time. I was getting worried." 

"You were--" Grantaire breaks off with a laugh that borders on the hysterical. "Am I having an aneurysm?" 

Enjolras puts a lid on the pot and leaves the spoon on the counter and comes over to him, frowning. "Are you not feeling well?" 

"Well," Grantaire says carefully. "I'm pretty sure I'm hallucinating." 

It takes Enjolras a moment to realize what Grantaire's talking about, and when he does, he scoffs and frowns at him like Grantaire's shock is exasperating. 

Grantaire's shock is _a perfectly reasonable response to the situation_ , thank you very much. "If you're expecting the others, you've missed them again. It's date night. Again." Grantaire can't figure out if Enjolras is just really, surprisingly terrible with remembering what day of the week it is or if he's genuinely forgetful, neither of which he would have believed Enjolras capable of a month ago, before he developed an uncanny knack for showing up on Grantaire's doorstep when he was home alone. 

Enjolras's frown deepens. "I'm not cooking for the others, I'm cooking for you." 

"That really raises more questions than it answers." 

"You made me soup," Enjolras says, like he thinks maybe if he talks slowly and uses small words Grantaire will comprehend it better. He is so, so wrong. "I thought I'd return the favor." 

"I opened a can and poured it into a pot and waited. You don't owe me anything for that, and even if you did, this is above and beyond. The stove did more work than I did." 

Enjolras folds his arm across his chest. He'd do a better job at looking imposing if he weren't wearing Joly's apron, with a cartoon lobster across the front and large letters embroidered proclaiming _Don't get me steamed!_ "Do you always fight this hard when people try to do nice things for you, or is it just me?" 

"Did _you_ have an aneurysm?" Grantaire demands. "I don't object to people being nice to me on moral grounds, I promise, but this is kind of coming out of left field." 

Enjolras's mouth pinches and his gaze slides sideways. For a second Grantaire thinks that Enjolras is annoyed with him and he is so, overwhelmingly relieved, because an annoyed Enjolras is an Enjolras that Grantaire knows how to deal with. But when Enjolras speaks, he says, "Well, last time I was here it wasn't exactly what I'd call nice, so consider this making up for a deficit." 

"You--" Grantaire leans his elbows on the table and pushes his fingers through his hair and tries desperately to figure out what the hell is going on. "You really don't have to make up for anything. You know that, don't you? Prickly and half-antagonistic is kind of our norm. It's worked fine for us before, I'm not sure why you suddenly feel the need to make up for it now." 

"Will you just be quiet and eat?" Enjolras snaps, and Grantaire feels on steadier ground. 

He draws a few deep breaths and tries very hard not to think about the fact that Enjolras broke into his apartment to cook for him. "What are we having?" 

Enjolras's fearsome expression settles into one of quiet satisfaction. "I made spaghetti alla carbonara." 

"You classy bastard," Grantaire says, laughing, because at this point he's pretty sure his options are either laugh or barricade himself in the bathroom and place a frantic phone call to Joly for rescue. "You're going to spoil me." 

Enjolras looks startled by the idea, but not displeased. "Stay where you are." He waves at the table that Grantaire is already sitting at. "I'm just going to dish it up. Give me just a moment." 

"You can have as much time as you need." Grantaire leans his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands, watching Enjolras move around the kitchen. _His_ kitchen. He still has absolutely no idea what he's doing here, not really, but if he is having an aneurysm-induced hallucination, it's a nice one. At least he'll go out happy, with a belly full of hallucinatory pasta. 

Enjolras brings over two plates piled high with spaghetti. It smells just as amazing in person as it did in the hallway, and it looks even better. Enjolras _garnished_ it, for heaven's sake. Grantaire is pretty sure he's never in his life bothered to garnish a plate of food before eating it. It's a nice touch, though, and his heart twists sharply inside his chest, despite his attempts to keep a grip on himself. It's the sort of touch you'd do for a date, but this is absolutely not a date, most dates don't start with breaking and entering. This is just Enjolras being Enjolras, not knowing how to do anything by halves. It's endearing and it's adorable but it is definitely, absolutely not a date. 

"You're not eating," Enjolras says, and he sounds unhappy, so Grantaire spears a forkful of pasta and shoves it in his mouth. 

The tastes of bacon and garlic and black pepper hit his tastebuds before he's ready for it, and the sound he makes is obscene. It's a moan, an honest-to-god moan, and Grantaire slaps a hand over his mouth in horror but it's too late. Enjolras's gaze flies up from his own plate, startled again. Grantaire covers his eyes with his hands and considers praying to any god who'll listen to just open up the floorboards and swallow him down whole. Except that he hasn't finished his pasta yet and this pasta is maybe, just possibly worth the humiliation of moaning like a wanton in front of Enjolras. Over spaghetti. 

"Are you all right?" Enjolras asks after a moment, and he sounds genuinely concerned. 

"I'm fine." Grantaire muffles the words in his hands. "This is amazing. I was not prepared. You should really warn a guy before you just casually hand him nirvana on a plate." 

"I'm sorry?" 

"You should be." Grantaire drops his hand and takes another bite. The law of diminishing returns should mean that every bite after the first gets less and less mind-blowing, but economic theory can kiss Grantaire's ass because Enjolras's spaghetti is never anything less than amazing. He sighs after half a dozen bites and looks up at Enjolras mournfully. "I regret to inform you that you're going to have to cook this for me every day for the rest of my life. I warned you you were going to spoil me and you didn't listen and now do you see what you've done? I'm ruined for all other food." 

Enjolras smiles, warm and truly pleased. "I'll teach you how to make it, if you like." 

"It would be but a pale imitation." 

"Well, there'll be leftovers enough to tide you over for a few days, in any case." 

Grantaire makes a mournful face, but it just makes Enjolras grin. He turns his attention back to eating before it goes cold while he's busy rhapsodizing. Enjolras eats as well, and the meal passes in a silence that's surprising in how comfortable it is. 

When they've finished, Grantaire gathers his dishes and circles the table to Enjolras's. Enjolras makes unhappy noises and tries to wave him off, protesting, "No, you don't have to, I can get it--" 

"I don't have to," Grantaire says. "I am anyway." He bats Enjolras's hands away and takes his plate before he can do something stupid like try to snatch it back. "The cook doesn't clean, that's the rules of the house and they don't change just because it's you." _Especially_ because it's him, but Grantaire isn't about to tell him that, it would just make him scowl and put his foot down on principle. 

"You'll let me help, at least," Enjolras says, rising to his feet. 

"I'll do nothing of the sort." Grantaire shifts the plates to one hand and uses the other to hold Enjolras back when he tries to follow Grantaire into the kitchen. His palm is pressed flat to Enjolras's chest and he can feel the way Enjolras's heart is beating beneath it. "If you want to do something useful, you can go look through my Netflix queue and see if there's anything you'd care to watch. Work was hell tonight, and scrubbing dishes and then crashing out on the couch until it's a reasonable bed time is about all I've got left in me." 

Enjolras looks mutinous, his mouth pressed flat and his eyes narrowed. "Please," Grantaire adds, gentler. "I can scrub dishes, that's not a problem. But I don't have enough brain juice left tonight to make any sort of executive decision, so if you want to help, _please_ just go get something brainless queued up. It won't take me ten minutes." 

When Enjolras relents, he does so all at once, with a violent sigh and a frown cast over his shoulder just to make absolutely certain his displeasure is clear. But he goes, and Grantaire hears the sounds of him turning on the TV and paging through his Netflix queue, so Grantaire retreats further into the kitchen, gets all the dishes in the sink and the water running, and while he waits for it to warm up enough to be useful he retrieves his phone and sends a group text to Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta. 

_WHICH ONE OF YOU GAVE HIM A KEY TO OUR HOUSE? WHOEVER IT IS, YOU'RE FIRED._

All three of them send back messages saying, _Not it_ within seconds of each other, and Grantaire has a moment to consider the possibility that Enjolras actually, literally broke into the apartment in order to cook fancy pasta for him. It's a wonderful thought, and a bewildering one, and a terrifying one. 

_HE MADE ME PASTA_ he sends to all of them. _WHY DID HE MAKE ME PASTA._

Bossuet responds first: _Tell him to come over when it's not date night sometime. We like pasta!_

_Did he make enough for leftovers?_ Joly asks. 

_You can have this pasta when you pry it out of my cold dead hands._

All that gets him is laughter and pleading emoticons, so Grantaire locks his phone, slips it into his pocket, and sets to scrubbing the dishes with vigor. 

He's done in less than ten minutes, because Enjolras is the sort of cook who puts all his dishes in the sink to soak as he uses them, bless him. When everything's either in the dishwasher or the drying rack, Grantaire dries his hands, takes a deep breath, and then goes out to the living room. 

The TV's on, something that Grantaire doesn't recognize paused on the opening credits, and Enjolras has his laptop out and balanced on his knees as he sits cross-legged at the couch. It's a relief and a disappointment in one, but when Grantaire gets nearer Enjolras glances up at him, smiles, and shuts the computer. "Sorry," he says. "Just figured I'd get a few emails out while I waited, instead of sitting here staring at a frozen picture for ten minutes." 

Grantaire hesitates mid-stride, staring at him. He's never in his life heard Enjolras apologize for working. If someone had asked him two hours before, he'd have said Enjolras wasn't capable of it. That he's doing it now, that he's apologizing to _Grantaire_ , makes him feel like the world has tilted to a new axis, everything warped and not-quite-right. 

"Um," he says when he realizes that the silence has gone on too long. "Okay?" 

Enjolras pats the couch and gives him an expectant look that obviously says, _Stop hovering and come sit down_ , so Grantaire does, settling gingerly onto the other end of the couch. They've got a whole cushion between them, just like last time, and just like last time, it somehow feels like an infinitesimally small distance. Grantaire's skin prickles with awareness of Enjolras sitting next to him, close enough he couldn't stretch out his arm without touching him. He pulls his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around them to resist the temptation. 

"Do you want to know what I chose, or do you want to be surprised?" 

"Surprise me," Grantaire says, and prays that whatever it is that they're about to watch, it's intensely distracting. 

He only watches the movie with half his attention, the other half focused immovably upon Enjolras. Even so, he still couldn't say how exactly it happens that by the time they've reached the halfway point and things are exploding across the screen, they've both migrated away from the arms of the couch enough that they're sitting comfortably side-by-side, just close enough that if one of them takes a deep breath or shifts to adjust their position, their shoulders brush. 

Grantaire misses the last half of the movie because their shoulders graze a _lot_ , and that isn't something that he can only give half his attention. 

The movie's building up to its dramatic climax, if the explosions and gunfire happening onscreen are any indication, when the apartment door is thrown open and Musichetta, Bossuet, and Joly come inside like an avalanche, bundled up in coats and talking loudly. Musichetta and Joly both look more than a little tipsy and Bossuet looks immensely fond of both of them. 

" _Grantaire,_ " Joly says rapturously, and comes stumbling across the living room to sit on the arm of the couch next to Grantaire, bracing a hand on Grantaire's shoulder and leaning in heavily enough that it pushes Grantaire up against Enjolras beside him. "You weren't kidding about the pasta. We could smell it from the _street._ " 

"What did you tell them about my pasta?" Enjolras asks. He sounds amused, but like he's fighting not to show it. 

"That he wants to elope with it and have its delicious carb-laden babies." 

"I said nothing of the sort." 

Joly leans past Grantaire so he can see Enjolras. "Did you make enough for leftovers?" 

"They're _mine_ ," Grantaire says, and then grimaces, his face going hot at the realization that he's just kind of proved Joly's point. 

Joly just laughs at him and slides off the couch to return to his boyfriend and girlfriend, leaving Grantaire pressed awkwardly close to Enjolras and with no excuse for it. His face goes even hotter, warmth spreading down his neck until he's sure he's as pink as a lobster. He ducks his head and gets to his feet as an excuse to put distance back between them. "That's it for the movie, I'm afraid," he says to Enjolras apologetically. "These three are always rowdy when they get home from date night, they're not likely to shut up long enough for us to finish." 

Enjolras is smiling as he gets to his feet. He doesn't look amused anymore, he just looks happy, and that's worse. Grantaire shoves his hands into his pockets to give him something to do with them and edges toward the door. "That's all right," Enjolras says easily. "We can finish it some other time." 

He says his good-byes to the other three and saves Grantaire for last. There's a moment where Enjolras turns to face him and is silent, and Grantaire can't think of a thing to say that doesn't sound like dismissal, and Enjolras is just _looking_ at him, why is he looking at him? He panics and wonders if he got pasta on his chin, or his shirt, or his eyebrows, and he's too busy running through all the humiliating possibilities to realize that Enjolras is moving forward until he's _there_ , right in front of Grantaire and sliding in even closer. His arms come up and he's hugging Grantaire, he's _hugging Grantaire_ , and Grantaire stands there like an idiot for a beat too long before he's able to make himself move and brings his arms up to give Enjolras an awkward pat on the back. 

"I'll send you the recipe," Enjolras says when he steps back, looking like he hasn't even noticed that Grantaire is standing poleaxed in front of him. "And next time we can make it together." 

Grantaire manages to scrounge up enough functioning brain cells to answer, "Well, I suppose that will have to do until I can set into motion my devious plan to kidnap you and force you to be my personal chef," and Enjolras laughs like he hasn't realized that Grantaire is a completely nonfunctional mess of a human being. 

Enjolras says good-bye, and waves again to the other three, and Grantaire closes the door behind him and then staggers over to the couch and drop onto it. Bossuet, Musichetta, and Joly all follow after and stand before him, staring at him with owlish expressions. 

"What-- what exactly _was_ that?" Bossuet finally ventures. 

"Fuck if I know," Grantaire says, and buries his face in a throw pillow. 

*

A week later, there's a knock at the door and Grantaire lifts his head from the painting detail he's been focusing too hard on and stares at it. "This is verging on the ridiculous," he says to the empty apartment, then sets aside his palette and goes to answer the door. 

Enjolras is on the other side, and he really didn't expect it to be anyone else. He's got his laptop bag over his shoulder and a weary smile already in place. 

Grantaire leans against the edge of the door and looks out at him in bemusement. "You're the smartest man I know, Enjolras. I _know_ your memory isn't this bad." 

Enjolras's smile fades away to a bewildered frown. "What?" 

"Never mind." Grantaire steps back, swinging the door open for him. "Come on in. The coffee's still fresh, I'll pour you a cup." He glances back over his shoulder at Enjolras, lips curved on a wry smile. "You won't hurt my feelings if you don't want to stay, though. They're out again. They're _always_ out on Thursdays. It's date night. I know you know this, I've only told you half a dozen times." 

"I know," Enjolras says, looking at him strangely. He waits until Grantaire's come back with two mugs of coffee and handed one off to him before he adds, "I thought we could finish the movie." 

Grantaire hesitates with his own mug halfway to his mouth. "Oh." 

It makes Enjolras frown. "Did you finish it without me? I thought we said--" 

"No," Grantaire says quickly. "No, I didn't finish it." He smiles, and hopes it doesn't look as bewildered as he feels. "No point in starting a movie together only to finish it alone. And you're right, we did say." 

Grantaire hadn't really expected anything to come of it, though. And he hadn't seen much reason to watch the end of the movie when he hadn't managed to pay much attention to the start of it in the first place. 

But now Enjolras is here and Grantaire can't find it in himself to deny him. He sat through the first part of the movie in a haze of distraction, why not finish it out the same way? 

"I thought you were going to teach me how to work your kitchen sorcery," he says with a teasing smile, because Enjolras is watching him and the silence has gone on too long. "Don't tell me you've changed your mind about imparting your secrets upon me, I'll be crushed." 

"Would you mind terribly if we did that some other day?" Enjolras shrugs off his laptop bag and lets it drop to the floor, a harder _thunk_ than he usually allows, and Grantaire looks at him anew, concerned. "I've had a day, and I couldn't quite manage to bring myself to deal with the crowds at the grocery store before coming here." 

"No, yeah, sure." Grantaire drops the teasing, comes back to him and takes him by the elbow and leads him into the living room, to the couch. "What's the matter? Are you all right?" 

"Oh--" Enjolras waves a hand, making a face. "I'm fine. It's just been a long and exhausting day. I could really use an evening on the couch watching mindless movies." 

"Then that's exactly what we'll do." He pushes lightly on Enjolras's shoulder until he drops down onto the couch, in what Grantaire realizes with a start he's coming to think of as _Enjolras's spot_. "Have you eaten?" 

Enjolras rubs the pads of his fingers over the middle of his brow, like there's tension there that he's trying to ease. "You don't need to feed me." 

"We're not going to have this argument again, are we?" Grantaire drops down into a crouch in front of him, frowning at him. "I was thinking of making popcorn, for an authentic movie-going experience, but if you're not hungry I'm just going to end up with the whole bowl to myself and that will lead to bad things. So, have you eaten yet?" 

Enjolras sighs a little and then smiles. "I'll share some of your popcorn, if you like." 

"Good answer." Grantaire rises and returns to the kitchen. He rifles through the cupboards until he finds the popcorn and sticks it in the microwave. "Butter?" 

"Eugh." 

Grantaire laughs quietly to himself. "Okay, no butter. Salt?" 

"Please." 

"Philistine," Grantaire says, but it's gently meant, and he dutifully salts the popcorn when it's done and carries it out in a bowl big enough for them to share between them. 

The end of the movie makes no sense at all, though Enjolras seems to enjoy it, so Grantaire supposes it's probably suffering from the lapsed attention he gave the first three-quarters of it. He watches and pretends he understands what's going on, though if the sly glances he sometimes catches Enjolras giving him are any indication, Grantaire suspects Enjolras may be wise to his secret. 

When the credits roll and there's nothing left in the bowl but a handful of unpopped kernels, Grantaire rises and takes the bowl into the kitchen before Enjolras can do something like insist on doing it himself. He feels a presence behind himself, though, and glances over his shoulder to discover that Enjolras is shadowing him into the kitchen. Once there, he leaves Grantaire to fill the bowl with water from the faucet and idly investigates their cupboards. 

"Next time," he says, softly, almost absently, "you can pick the movie. And then at least I won't feel guilty if you don't like it." 

His words make Grantaire look at him with a start. "Don't feel guilty. I liked the movie fine." He's sure he would have, if he'd been able to give it the attention it deserved. It's not the movie's fault he's been preoccupied. It was on his Netflix queue for a reason, after all. 

"You really didn't," Enjolras says, but he's smiling, indulgent. "Anyway. Next time you can pick the movie, and maybe I'll make dessert. There's this red velvet icebox cake recipe I've been meaning to try out." 

"Oh god," Grantaire says before he can help himself. "If you make me dessert I am going to be compelled to kiss you, I feel it only fair to warn you. I can't be held responsible for my actions." 

The silence that comes from behind him is too complete, too long. About ten seconds into it, Grantaire's heart starts pounding a heavy rhythm. He turns to Enjolras, shoulders pulling up tight, stammers, "Look, it's a joke, obviously I'm not going to assault you, you can make whatever dessert you like. Or don't, I can always buy ice cream at the grocery store. Or maybe you could _say_ something, I don't know, it's just a suggestion." 

Enjolras stares at him for another fifteen seconds. "You can't really be that much of an idiot." 

"I really can," Grantaire says automatically. Then, "Why am I an idiot this time?" 

"You meant it earlier, didn't you? About me forgetting that it's date night. Is that what you honestly think has been happening?" 

"Er," Grantaire says. "Yes?" 

Enjolras makes a harsh, rough noise. "I thought you were just being self-deprecating because that's what you do, but no, you really think--" He breaks off, grabbing fistfuls of his own hair and looking at Grantaire like he's the most aggravating thing in the entire world. "It's _intentional_ , R. It's all been intentional, except for the first. It was always on purpose." 

His words are like white noise, buzzing through Grantaire's mind but incomprehensible. "Why would you--" 

"It's date night," Enjolras says, and there's a strange look in his eye, and a stranger emphasis to the words. He stares imploringly at Grantaire, like he's willing him to understand, but Grantaire really, really doesn't. 

And then he does. 

Comprehension drops like a boulder straight into the pit of his stomach, leaving him reeling and just a little nauseous. "Oh," he says. " _Oh._ You've been-- oh." 

"Yeah," Enjolras says, and there's a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth, hesitant but hopeful. 

Grantaire staggers towards him. "I lied," he says desperately. "About the kissing. It's not a joke. I want to. Please, please say I can kiss you." 

Enjolras rolls his eyes, but his smile is spreading, turning broad and bright. "I've only been trying to imply it for weeks now." And that's enough, enough for Grantaire to be sure. 

He catches Enjolras by the collar and pulls him in, and Enjolras goes abruptly quiet. Grantaire can't think too hard about this or his nerve will fail him, so he just shuts his eyes and leans in, covers Enjolras's mouth with his and shivers when Enjolras sighs against his lips and brings his hands up to push through Grantaire's hair. 

There's inches between them and it suddenly feels like too much to bear. Grantaire drops his hands from Enjolras's collar to spread them at the small of his back, urging him in. Enjolras takes a half-step forward that brings them in against one another, his body warm and solid and real against Grantaire's, his hands tugging carefully at Grantaire's hair to tilt his head to a better angle or encourage a deeper kiss, and Grantaire doesn't want any of it to ever end. 

They make it to the couch somehow, though Grantaire's only distantly aware of Enjolras nudging him into slow, shuffling steps. When the couch's edge nudges the backs of his calves, he drops onto it without letting go. Enjolras ends up bent over awkwardly for just a moment, until he climbs up onto the couch with him and kneels astride Grantaire's thighs. The weight of him pinning Grantaire down makes his breath come quick and sharp, makes his hands clench tighter on Enjolras's shirt. 

Enjolras brings his hands up to cup Grantaire's face, and kisses him like that for another moment before he breaks away, leaning his forehead against Grantaire's and breathing hard. When Grantaire opens his eyes, he looks so, so happy. 

"I'm going to want to do that a lot," Grantaire admits quietly, and he's humbled by the way it makes Enjolras's face light up. 

"Good. I'm going to want you to do it a lot." 

Grantaire feels daring when he puts his hands on Enjolras's hips, but Enjolras just hums like he's pleased, and he follows easily when Grantaire tugs him in and urges him into another kiss. His mouth curves into a sharp, fierce smile against his, and it makes it a little difficult to kiss properly, like that, but it's good. Grantaire never, ever wants it to end. 

*

There's a knock at the door, but Grantaire barely has a chance to move to put his palette down before Musichetta is crying, "I'll get it" and bounding across the living room to get to the door first. 

Enjolras blinks owlishly at her. "Oh, hello," he says when she just beams at him from the doorway. "I thought it was date night." 

"It _is_ ," Bossuet says gleefully from where he's pinned to the couch by Joly across him. 

Grantaire sighs and puts his palette and brushes aside where they'll be safe from being knocked into, and gets to his feet to go rescue Enjolras. "They can't decide on any of the movies that are in theaters, so they decided to compromise with a Netflix triple feature. I told them I'd clear out and give them some privacy once you got here." His sneakers are by the front door, and he keeps them loose enough that he can just shove his feet in without having to mess about with tying them. 

Enjolras is frowning, but Grantaire is eighty-percent sure it's his thoughtful frown, not his unhappy one. "I didn't tell you I was coming over." 

Joly buries his face in Bossuet's lap to muffle peals of laughter. Musichetta grins, and Bossuet bends over to snort into Joly's hair. Grantaire just grins at Enjolras as he shrugs his sweater on. "If you wanted to surprise me, you maybe shouldn't have come on a Thursday. I could set my clock by you." 

"It's date night," Enjolras says, like that explains everything. 

"So it is." Grantaire hooks his arm through Enjolras's and leans in to kiss his cheek as he leads them down the hall. They've kissed a hell of a lot more than that in the past week, but this sort of easy, intimate affection still feels new and thrilling, and he's grinning like a fool as they reach the stairs. "So I can't cook worth a damn, but I've got an adventurous spirit and Urbanspoon on my phone. What do you say we take our chances with the restaurant roulette? My treat." 

Enjolras threads his fingers through Grantaire's and clasps his hand like he's just as excited by the newness of it all as Grantaire is. "Sounds perfect," he says, and they head down the stairs together.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Date Night](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9121534) by [RsCreighton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RsCreighton/pseuds/RsCreighton)
  * [[Podfic of] Date Night](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10027478) by [finnagain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/finnagain/pseuds/finnagain), [klb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/klb/pseuds/klb), [reena_jenkins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reena_jenkins/pseuds/reena_jenkins), [wingedwords (gunpowderandlove)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gunpowderandlove/pseuds/wingedwords)




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